


nothing so much as dust

by FreshBrains



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Dreams, F/F, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bella’s blood tastes like death, heady and thick, black as night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing so much as dust

**Author's Note:**

> For the Femslash Big Bang monthly challenge: Mythology.

“I knew you’d find me.” Bedelia measured her voice carefully.  “But may I ask why?”  She can hear Hannibal exhale deeply from the other side of the door and she opens it slowly, letting the early springtime chill into her home.

“May I come inside?”  He’s dressed impeccably as always but the color of his suit feels off to her.  She likes him more in austere navies and reds, not this slightly greenish khaki-color he sports over a dark shirt and nondescript tie.  He looks so…human. 

Bedelia nods, letting him hang for a moment under her cool gaze, and says, “Yes, Hannibal.  Please come inside.”  The energy in the room heats once he’s across the threshold and Bedelia hates that her home cannot be just hers anymore; he’s been inside so he’s a part of it forever, his scent, his mark.  “I’m afraid you’ll need to spend the day if you’re planning on staying for long.”

“Not long at all,” Hannibal says, moving easily as Bedelia takes his jacket and hangs it up.  “I’ll be home by sunrise, I assure you.”  He stands in the foyer, awaiting her direction.

“Come into the kitchen,” Bedelia says slowly, allowing him to walk in front of her.  “I know it is the place you’re most comfortable in.” 

Hannibal ignores the jibe and immediately busies himself in the space, pouring wine into glasses, searching for something simple and easy to eat—cheese and crackers, sliced fruit.  He likes serving, even when he’s not in his own home.  “I haven’t come for personal reasons, but I do admit that my reasons may be selfish.”

“Sounds like something I can’t help you with,” Bedelia says.

“On the contrary, you’re the only one I know who can,” Hannibal counters, handing her a glass.  She takes it and admires the color in the glass, the thickness in the liquid meant for their kind and not their human guests.  “I’d like you to sire someone for me.”

“No,” Bedelia says immediately, and takes a small sip.  “I don’t sire.”

“Nor do I,” Hannibal says.  “And what does this say about us?”

“That we’re not fit to be parents,” Bedelia says dryly.  “Especially not with each other.” 

“I am not asking you to mentor her, only assist her,” Hannibal says, fingers playing idly with the stem of the wineglass.  It’s an odd gesture for him, one she notices right away—he never fidgets.  “She’s ill and I’ve already saved her once.”

“Hannibal,” Bedelia says softly, but with no affection, “you don’t save people.  You only keep them for later…” she pauses, and exhales.  “Like meat from a hunt.”

“I saved her from herself,” Hannibal says.

“Don’t you always,” Bedelia says, and sits down at the kitchen table.  “Why now?”

“She doesn’t want my help.” Hannibal sits across from her, stiffly, back ramrod straight in the chair.  “But I’ve become too involved.  She’d know it was me.”

“You were right,” Bedelia says.  “You _are_ being selfish.”

*

Bella sleeps and dreams.

She dreams of wading into water up to her waist, low-tide water clogged with silt and weeds, and she’s going towards a fire burning in one of the turrets of St. Michaels’ Mount.  She knows she won’t make it—she’s so tired, her feet so heavy, the hem of her steel-gray dress dragging her deeper into the mud—but she keeps wading, thighs burning with exertion, reaching out for land.

She used to love France—Paris was beautiful, of course, but she preferred the north better, with its beaches and ruins, churches and deep history.  She and Jack spent many summers there, travelling, gaining blisters on their toes and friends along the way.

He always introduced her as _Bella_ , and oh, how she adored him for it.  She could never _not_ adore him for it.

When she wakes, she takes air deep into her burning lungs and wishes she was back in the water, clinging to damp life, reaching for the dying fire.

“Drink,” says a soft voice, oozing like honey, and the rim of a cup touches her lips. 

Bella drinks without question, even though she knows the water cannot quell the constant burning in her lungs.  Her vision blurs; the room is dark.  She can only see the pale, hazy outline of a person standing next to her bed like some sort of angel of death.

“Do you know who I am?” The woman doesn’t move.

“No,” Bella rasps, closing her eyes.  She’s so tired, always so tired.  So far away from the world she once knew.  “But…I don’t know much these days.”

“I’m a friend of Dr. Lecter’s.”

Bella squeezes her eyes shut tight, wishing she had the strength to roll over and turn her back to this woman. “Then I think it best if you leave.”

“He asked me to come here,” the woman says, and sits gingerly at the edge of Bella’ bed. “But if I’m being honest, I’m not doing it for him.”

Bella opens her eyes slowly. The woman is slim and blonde, her skin pale and clear, diamond earrings glinting in the light of the beeping machines. “What exactly are you doing?”

“Sleep,” the woman says, a soft husk in her voice. “Sleep, and when you wake, the burning will stop.”

Bella feels her heart skip a beat in her weak chest. “Are you…finishing what Dr. Lecter interrupted?”

The woman leans down, lips hovering close to Bella’s neck, and whispers, “My name is Bedelia. And yes, in a way, I am.”

*

Bedelia remembers the day she was turned as crisply as if it were yesterday, and how Hannibal was the first person she saw when she clawed her way out from the dirt, the first person who touched and held her.  He didn’t sire her, but he might as well have. 

He drank the sticky, old blood of her sire right in front of her, making her watch, letting her see herself be avenged.  She didn’t yet understand that their kind never drank from one another, and that to do so made him an abomination of another sort.

Bella’s blood tastes like death, heady and thick, black as night. It tastes like poison deep in her throat, makes her gag as she drains Bella’s body and fills her with the venom of afterlife. But there’s something beneath the taste, something that makes Bedelia keep drinking—something like overripe fruit, like tiger lilies.

Something beautiful.

*

Bedelia takes two wine glasses, the stems fragile beneath her strong fingers, and smiles at the bartender. The soothing sound of violins and the smell of smoked mozzarella fill the air in the expansive ballroom, and a crystal chandelier sways gently above them, sounding like ice in a glass.

She weaves her way through the crowd of well-dressed guests, everyone in dark reds and greens and blues—jewel colors. But the one jewel she has her eye on is draped in black chiffon, the curls of her hair the color of ink. Darkness beneath the clean light. She smiles at her companion, who smiles back, coy and close-lipped, but before Bedelia can reach her destination, a firm hand takes hold of her elbow.

“I apologize if I startled you, _bella_ ,” the man slurs. Bedelia detects little threat and has to hide her smile at the little nickname. “But I was wondering about the woman you are with.”

Bedelia gives him an icy smile. “In regards to what?”

The man burps softly, obviously far gone on the fine wine. “She looks familiar. I’ve seen her here before, in Milan.”

Bedelia shakes her head and takes her leave. “I’m sorry,” she says, craning her neck to speak to the man, “you must be mistaken.”

When she reaches Bella, she leans in and whispers, “You make quite an impression.”

Bella grins and takes her wine. “I always do. Now, what’s next?”

“We choose a guest,” Bedelia says. “And then we have a good time. As always.” She and Hannibal used to have good times together—sex and death, always combined—but Bella never partook in the _petite morte_ , only the slaughter. She insisted Jack was the love of her life and Bedelia the love of her afterlife, and she had no room for others.

“Let’s go to France next,” Bella says wistfully, twining her fingers through Bedelia’s.

Bedelia nods. She knows Hannibal will show up in Italy soon, anyways. “Sounds good to me, my love.”

Bella sips her wine. Her eyes are bright and intelligent, but there’s something beneath them, something more dangerous than anything Bedelia had ever seen before.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a passage in Sylvia Plath's _The Bell Jar_.


End file.
